by John Marco
“We can hope, at least.”
It did him no good to summon the strength of the armor or Kahldris’ seemingly endless confidence. He dreaded the morning. He was not the monster that possessed him; that much he knew for certain, no matter how Kahldris changed his appearance or opinions. There was much good in Kahldris, but there was much to fear as well, and Thorin did not want the Liirians to fear him. He wanted them to embrace him, and the greatness he would once again bring their city.
“Look at that city, Varl,” he said softly. “Once it was beautiful. Greater than Norvor or Marn or Reec or . . .” He shrugged. “Great because the idea of it made it great.”
Varl looked at the city, trying to appreciate it. “That was too long ago,” he said with real sadness. “It will take much to make it great again. More than Jazana’s fortune, even.”
Thorin sat up tall. “It will take vision and strength.”
“Breck has strength,” offered Varl.
“He does, but not enough to take Liiria where it needs to go, and not enough to forge a great alliance with Norvor.”
The idea thrilled Thorin. He could even feel Kahldris tingle within him. Together, Liiria and Norvor would be unstoppable, and it had taken Kahldris to show him the truth of it.
But he missed Jazana terribly, and the thought of killing Breck made all the glory fade. He wished he could fall into Jazana’s bed, to have her stroke his head and reassure him, but she was back in Andola, too far away to help him. Worse, the sight Kahldris had granted him had let him ask questions a mortal man should never know the answers to. He knew Lukien had come to stop him. Even now Lukien was in the city with Breck, waiting for the morning and his futile chance to stop the things the Great Fate had ordained.
Baron Glass hid his sorrow behind his frightful helmet. He was about to dismiss Varl and the others when a strange sound reached his ears.
“What is that?” he asked, searching the hills.
“Drums,” said Varl after a moment. “The Rolgans.”
Thorin nodded. “Yes . . .”
The Rolgan war drums pounded out their faint, fearsome music. The militant beat thrummed through the night like the insistent chiming of a clock, counting down the minutes till morning. Demortris’ drummers sent up a terrible call, summoning the men of Vicvar and the chariots of Poolv to their banner, and shaking the courage of Breck’s brave defenders. Thorin listened to the mournful drumbeat, hating it. He turned his horse away from the city.
“Get to your men,” he told Varl. “Tell them to sit tight. It will be a long morning before they do any fighting.”
Without looking back at Koth or its magnificent library, Thorin rode away from the ridge, eager to reach his pavilion and silence the Rolgan drums.
A scarlet moon hung over the city. The tips of countless spears glinted in the light. Towering catapults hurled shadows against the hills, and the creaking of chariot wheels floated on the wind. If he listened carefully, Breck could hear the distant voices of the Norvans surrounding Koth, whispering about the coming battle as they readied their machines and weapons. From his place in the avenue, he could see past the gates of Koth to the vast army facing him, near enough to count the sea of helmets. He had never seen so great an army, and the sight of it fascinated him. Thorin and his men had surrounded Koth. Perhaps four thousand men faced the front of the city. Another four thousand led by the mercenary Kaj threatened the east side, and yet another force, smaller than the others, had camped at the bottom of Library Hill. The invincible baron had chosen to attack the city itself, forcing Breck to leave the security of the library to protect those still inside the city. And though many of the populace had ridden south for Farduke and north-east for Reec, there were still many more who had remained. Despite its size, the library was too small to accommodate them all. Breck knew Thorin’s strategy was a good one, and that there was no way at all they could hold off his onslaught, not once his army breached the city. But he and his Chargers had sworn to protect Koth and its citizens. He would not let them be slaughtered while he watched from Library Hill.
The gates to the city weren’t really gates at all. Koth had always welcomed visitors, and the gates were nothing more than unmovable pillars of stone and iron standing like sentries at the mouth of the avenue. The avenue itself led to the heart of Koth, where Chancellery Square still stood and Lionkeep kept watch over the city. It would have been easy for Breck to take refuge in Lionkeep, but he had too few men to keep the Norvans out of the gate and so had arranged his forces the best he could, lining up his Chargers in long rows at the eastern and western flanks and stationing archers in the towers. Aliston, who had become his Captain of Archers, had done a good job of positioning his bowmen so that now they could easily see Thorin’s men poised to enter the city. In the morning, they would rain down their arrows on the Norvans as they rode, trying and probably failing to repel their attack.
Breck noted the height of the moon. Morning would soon be upon them. All through the city his men prepared for the attack, helping the folk of Koth secure their homes and storefronts. They had done their best to evacuate Koth, but now it was too late. With the Norvan noose tight around their throats, there was no escape for any of them. As he looked out toward the hills, Breck hoped some mercy remained in Baron Glass, and that his cursed armor had not drained all his humanity.
There were many in the street with him, yet Breck felt completely alone. He turned toward the north and saw the library towering over the city. Inside the library, his wife Kalla waited with his son. She had begged him not to leave, but in the end she had understood the need. It had broken Breck’s heart to leave her but she had steadfastly refused to join the evacuation, choosing to put herself in the hands of Van and Murdon and the others who had stayed to defend the library. They, too, would likely die, for Breck knew that once the city fell Baron Glass would surely turn his attention toward the library.
“Commander?”
Startled, Breck turned to see Aric Glass coming toward him. The young man paused, careful not to interrupt him. Amazingly, he had volunteered for duty in the city, almost insisting on it. Breck supposed he just wanted to see his father.
“What is it, Aric?”
“A report from Captain Aliston. His archers are in position but won’t promise anything. There’s only two good towers facing the gates.”
Breck waved off the excuse. “For the hundredth time, I know. What else?”
“Captain Andri’s closed off the eastern streets.”
“He got the barricades positioned?”
Aric nodded. “It took some doing, but yes. They tore down one of the old chancellery offices for beams. The mercenaries should have a tough time getting past them.”
The news bolstered Breck. Andri was a good man, with the necessary cleverness. He’d hold the east end as long as possible, Breck was sure.
“Anything else?”
Aric thought for a moment. “Just waiting for the morning now.”
Breck smiled. He was proud of Aric. Despite his youth, he had performed admirably. Breck was glad he’d chosen him for an aide.
“Have you seen Lukien yet?”
“No, sir. The others have been asking about him.”
Breck looked back toward the library. He knew his men were anxious to see Lukien. They needed his strength.
“Sir?”
“Hmm?”
“Will Lukien be leading a brigade?”
“I’ll be leading, Aric. So will Andri.”
“Yes, sir.”
They remained quiet for a long moment, Aric waiting to be dismissed.
“Aric, be at ease,” said Breck. “There’s nothing to do now but wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
Breck listened very carefully. “You hear the drums?”
“I hear them,” replied Aric, his tone brittle.
“Rolgan war drums. Glass must have found someone to replace Onikil.”
“What about the chariots?” asked Aric.
Breck tried to look confident. The chariots of Poolv were a worry. Early scouts had counted hundreds of them just days before. And the streets of Koth were wide and smooth enough to accommodate them easily.
“We’ll trap them in the corners if we can, or catch them in a crossfire. Aliston’s prepared for them.”
The answer sat uneasily with Aric, who licked his lips and tried looking brave. Breck had decided not to deceive any of them—he didn’t expect to win the battle. He wanted only to bloody Jazana Carr’s nose, and maybe be an example to other Liirian cities. They would resist because it was the right thing to do. Because Liiria was their country.
“Fate above, look at that . . .”
Breck turned with alarm toward the gate, then realized Aric wasn’t talking about the Norvans at all. Instead the young man’s eyes were fixed on the avenue, and a single horseman riding through. The sea of soldiers parted as he trotted slowly down the street, unmistakable in his armor of bronze.
Lukien’s bronze armor gleamed in the moonlight. His horse clip-clopped confidently to the Rolgan drumbeat. A great broadsword hung at his belt, shining like his unblemished armor. His radiant breastplate caught the moonbeams like a rainbow. Aric’s mouth fell open at the sight of him, and the men along the avenue stopped to stare. Lukien kept his determined gaze on Breck, ignoring his dumbstruck comrades. He came like a giant out of the darkness, unafraid, bearing on his shoulders the hopes of the men. Breck admired him. It had been many years since he’d seen his friend don the armor, but time had made him no less magnificent. Once, Reecian generals had cringed to see the Bronze Knight.
Lukien brought his horse to a halt before Breck. His face bore the steel of resolution. His two little words said everything.
“I’m ready.”
It had taken Lukien hours to appear, but Breck had never doubted he would come.
“The dawn comes fast, Lukien,” said Breck softly. “Listen to the drums.”
Lukien cocked his ear to hear the martial noise. His one eye blinked contemptuously.
“He’s chosen the Rolgans to lead,” he said, referring to Thorin. “That’s a surprise after what he did to Onikil.” He looked around, noting the stares of the many men who had yet to return to their duties. Breck expected him to comment on their numbers, but he did not. “They’re fine,” he said. “Brave.” He looked at Aric Glass. “All of them.”
Aric puffed at the praise, his eyes full of admiration. “You’ll fight with us, here at the west side?” he asked hopefully.
“I’ll fight wherever Breck will have me fight,” said Lukien.
“It’ll be worse here than the east side,” said Breck. “You should stay with us here.”
Lukien got down from his horse. Like its rider, the huge beast was laden with armor. “Do I have a post?”
“Just stay out front where the men can see you. Look . . . see the way they watch you? They need to see you, Lukien.” Breck grinned. “So try not to get killed.”
Lukien’s expression remained serious. “I cannot be killed, Breck. No matter how much I may wish it.”
“Ah, you sound like Glass now!”
“It is not a boast, Breck. It’s something you need to know.” Lukien’s face darkened with shame. “I have kept it from you, but now it’s time to show you.”
“What?” asked Breck with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
“I know you don’t approve of Grimhold’s magic,” said Lukien, digging into his breastplate. He caught hold of a chain and began to tug. “I thought to never show you this, but I shan’t keep secrets from you, not anymore.”
Breck watched as he pulled on the chain, drawing it awkwardly from beneath his breastplate. His suspicions heightened, he expected to see a charm on the other end or some sort of twisted rabbit’s foot. Instead he saw a dazzling amulet and, knowing what it was, let out a horrible groan.
“Lukien . . .”
Lukien let the thing dangle on his breastplate, the ruby at its center pulsing with life. Aric gasped when he saw it.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That’s the Eye of God,” snapped Breck. He looked furiously at Lukien. A year ago, it was this same cursed thing that had kept Cassandra alive. “You’ve had it all along, Lukien?”
“It’s keeping me alive, Breck,” said Lukien. “I took a mortal blow in Grimhold. Without this amulet I would have been dead long ago.”
“Damnable magic!” growled Breck. “You bring this filth into my country, you and Thorin both! Look around, Lukien—look what all this magic has brought us!”
Lukien kept calm in the face of Breck’s storm. “This is the means to defeat Thorin’s armor, Breck. It’s the only way. It’s kept me alive when I should have been dead. It will keep me alive if I have to battle Thorin.”
Breck shook his head in exasperation. “How do you know that? How do you know any of these trinkets you’ve brought are worth anything at all? Look what the armor has done to Baron Glass, Lukien.” He pointed with disgust at the Eye. “How do you know that thing won’t do the same to you?”
“Because it hasn’t done so already,” said Lukien. “Because the Akari spirit inside it is trustworthy.”
Breck rolled his eyes. “Gods, listen to yourself. That’s the same nonsense Thorin believed.”
Lukien took the amulet in his hand and held it tight. “It gives me strength. Strength enough to defeat Thorin if need be. And when Thorin falls, the rest of them will, too. It’s the only hope we have.”
They were all looking at Lukien, not only Aric but all the other gathered soldiers, too. Breck bit his lip, not wanting to argue with the man who was their hero.
“You deceived me, Lukien,” he said.
“I did not. I promised you I would stay and fight. Well, here I am.”
The two old comrades shared a charged glare. At last, Breck relented.
“You may wear your amulet, then,” he said. “And hope it does not betray you, or the rest of us.” Then, a little smile crept over his face. “It will be good to fight with you again, Bronze Knight.”
Van looked out over the walls he had built with a sense of solid satisfaction. At the base of Library Hill, a mercenary army numbering in the thousands had camped, setting up their catapults to soften the library’s walls and the will of its defenders, but Vanlandinghale of the Royal Chargers refused to be afraid. He had been given an important duty by Breck himself, to look after the civilians in the library. Among them were Breck’s wife and son, and Van had no intention of letting them be harmed. It was bravado, he knew, but as he surveyed the walls he allowed himself a modicum of pride. Major Nevins was in command now, and would fight the main force when they tried to breach the hill. Murdon was his second, and as such had a role at least as important as Van’s, but the walls belonged to Van. If Nevins fell and Murdon failed, only the walls and the last defenders would remain to hold the library.
It could have been so much easier, Van knew. If Breck hadn’t taken so many men to the city, if they had all held out inside the library, they could have withstood the siege for days. They had even sent word to Reec for help, and there was still a chance that the Reecian king would heed their pleas. But Breck wasn’t like that, and had refused to leave the cityfolk to fend for themselves. There were still plenty of civilians in Koth, all of whom were in dire peril from Baron Glass and Jazana Carr. Van smiled as he thought of his brave commander, willingly leaving the library’s safety. He had taken Aric and Lukien and hundreds of others with him, but he had insisted that Van stay behind.
“Look after them,” he had whispered to Van, afraid for his wife and son. And then he had gone, riding down the hillside for Koth, where he would quite probably die.
We will all die, thought Van.
Around him his men checked the walls and set traps for the invaders, ignoring exhaustion in their zeal to be ready. Now the morning was coming fast; the drums in the hills had been playing for an hour. Van checked his sidearm—a long, thin sword—pat
ting it like a lover to reassure himself. He should have been exhausted himself, for he had been up for countless hours, but the dread of the coming battle kept his nerves taut and his mind alive with fire. Deciding to inspect the grounds, he left the shadows of the walls and went toward the field surrounding them. Gazing up to the tower he saw his men stationed in the buttresses, ready with longbows. His crossbowmen would be stationed closer to the action, where their lesser range but greater power would be more useful. He was about to check the furthest wall when he saw Mirage hurrying toward him.
Mirage, if that was truly her name, had been a blessing to a Van. Since Onikil’s head had come to the library, Mirage had done everything possible to be of use to Breck and his soldiers, and now she had become indispensable, preparing bandages as well as meals and even doing the dirty work of digging ditches and fletching arrows, a skill she was surprisingly deft at. She spoke very little of her past, which did not surprise Van at all, or about Grimhold, where she had gotten her exotic name. If she had any magical powers she had never revealed them, but she had shown herself to be courageous, completely unwilling to leave the library to join the other refugees who had evacuated the place. As Mirage saw Van across the field, she waved to him. In her hand she held a steaming mug.
“I thought you’d be hungry,” she called to him. She raised the mug to show him. “For you.”
Van crossed the distance between them, smiling appreciatively. Out in the open as they were, he was sure his men could see him, but he didn’t really care. If Lukien didn’t want her—and clearly he didn’t—he would be proud to court the lovely girl.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the mug. Looking into it, he saw it was a thin stew, more for drinking than eating, with slivered peas and bits of ham from the stores. Most importantly it was hot, just what Van needed. He wrapped his hands around the mug to warm them, then took a little sip. “Good,” he pronounced.
“I didn’t make it,” said Mirage, almost apologizing. “I just thought you could use something. You should come in and rest. It’s still hours before morning.”
